


Traces

by tekowrites



Category: Tokyo Babylon, X -エックス- | X/1999
Genre: Crossdressing, Depression, Gen, Insanity, Loss, Pain, Self-Harm, Suffering, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:02:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7145687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekowrites/pseuds/tekowrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His wish has just come true, awash in bandages, Subaru reflects on how far he's come, just to be fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traces

They’d wrapped his eye with gauze, and Subaru waited. Waited for Kamui to see him, for the others to express and imprint on him their emotions, their suffering, masked as hurt for his. When the door had closed, finally, he caught his mouth on a smile. And it’s such a beautiful smile, such a shy one, that his fingers lingered against his mouth, tracing it as it disappeared.

At first, nothing had been this easy.

His body didn’t know, didn’t understand why they had to move here and there. Limbs heavy with unseen weight kept dragging as he waded through the funeral. Words, songs, and chants must have been uttered, but there was no recollection of any, save the dull realization of a cramp building in his leg, travelling to his thigh. When he’d managed to blink, he realized the wake had been long over.

It was one morning after, when he woke up to a stream of sunlight on his face, and the ready motions of reaching for a fresh pair of gloves, that it struck him. His limbs died mid-reach, and a haze of nothingness took their place. When he’d managed to blink again, it was too dark to do much but wait and watch the morning crawl up his face. It did, and that became the new routine, the true one. The one true certainty was thus, that even nothing, had to abide by everything. It was a comfort to close his eyes, so he never did.

They started to appear on the fourth, maybe fifth day. The little snapshots so real, so clear, pristine and sharp.

Talking, walking around and discussing plans and clothes and why wasn’t he up on his feet? Didn’t he have a date? What would grandmother do about him, shrinking his duties, forgetting his gloves?

He had breakfast and he washed, non-stop chatter and frills, hats, suits and coats. Had he forgotten his manners? Changing in front of his date! Fun and shyness and little butterflies of unrest, till a hand takes his and rubs them away, in a manner that just invites them back in.

But his brain could only idle so much, and when the room was awash with light, he blinked back in despair, and his screams shook the bed.

He’d wondered if they’d atrophy and fall off, but the limbs worked, they got him up, shuffled him forward, deposited him in the floral room, with the punk-rock posters. He found a dress, the earrings, the bottled colors and smooth pencils. The lipstick was the last touch, and he sat in front of the mirror after, flounced the stiff petticoat on the bed. It was all wrong. The dress didn’t sit right, sagged where he had nothing to fill it with, the lipstick was the wrong shape, and the powder thing, and the pencil thing. He broke the mirror and everything made sense again.

Hokuto-chan listened as he talked to her, but she’d only nod yes and no, she never spoke. He got angry at her and hit the mirror again, again, again, and this time she looked perfect. She still wouldn’t talk, but that was okay now, because he’d stopped talking too.

Something plopped to the floor and he scrunched his eyes in dismay. He’d forgotten to paint the nails, and now blood was everywhere on the bed and floor. He needed his gloves again. They were on before he blinked again, and got angry at the blinking. How could he stop the blinking?

The hair went next. He scratched at the bald spots, comforting a naked scalp, patting it for being good. His hands had slipped several times. Stupid gloves, but the blood had crusted inside them and he couldn’t take them off now.

And then blurry light melded into spots of black, smears of red and bruises of purple, on and on, start and repeat, though he’d never stopped, his limbs gave up instead. Still blinking? Still blinking. Then the thoughts came, the new thoughts of why. Why him, why her, why wouldn’t his lungs fail, why wouldn’t his heart stop, why would his eyes keep blinking. If it all _hurt_ so _damn_ much then _why_?

_Why?_

When he was finally hollow, it was a revelation. He touched and nothing responded, he thought and everything echoed. He laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed till a sob came stumbling bouncing rattling out and he _wailed_. Fist on the floor, back arched to the sky and howling. Garbled came the sounds of acute misery and fucking _anger_. Hoarse and bleeding he walked on glass, crunching as he left behind an open door, down the stairs and then crumbled on the sidewalk.

_Why? Please, just why?_

The machines beeped. _Dehydration, malnutrition, infections, bruising, torn vocal cords, insomnia, depression. Did you harm yourself?_

“No, Seishirou-san.”

_Delusions, lucid reality and day dreams, possible psychological abuse. No sign of sexual abuse. Caretaker?_

“Just the drugs please.”

_Observation, monitor intake, administer dosage. We had to cut the gloves._

And then finally, the acquiescent silence of the half-crazed, the robotic functioning of the living shell. Everything became easy.

“I’m fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken liberties with Subaru's anger, but I think it's part of his grieving process, despite his all-consuming kindness. There had to be a reason he could no longer function, no longer invest in adulthood, save emotionally.


End file.
